


high on you

by freezerjerky



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Weed, how is weed not an autofilled tag?, post saving the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 08:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19719652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezerjerky/pseuds/freezerjerky
Summary: The issue is, Crowley doesn’t realize he’s called Aziraphale a beautiful abomination aloud.“A what now, dear?” Aziraphale asks, blinking a few times. His eyes have the faintest red rim around them and Crowley wants to investigate all the ways they’ve become like the humans they seem to love so dearly, but he also wants to kiss him.“I didn’t say anything, Aziraphale,” Crowley answers, playing cool. He wishes he had his sunglasses on, so his face was hidden from the world.in which an angel and a demon get high together





	high on you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BeneathSilverStars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneathSilverStars/gifts).



> Tread lightly on me- this is my first Good Omens fic after a year of almost exclusively writing Pacific Rim content. The fic is written to be compliant with both the book and the tv series which is why both are tagged.
> 
> Written at the bequest of Silver. <3

Among the nicknames for the well known plant cannabis the most laughable is “the Devil’s lettuce.” There are a variety of reasons this is a particularly funny nickname but the predominant reasons are: 1. It is not a lettuce and cannot and perhaps should not be eaten as a salad, though arguments can be made that it would be an excellent garnish for a sandwich. 2. The Devil doesn’t feel anything for cannabis either way.

Upon discovering this nickname, the demon Crowley spent five minutes in a fit of laughter as though it was the most humorous thing in the world. Crowley had, naturally, consumed cannabis when he learned this, which is why he actually agreed that this was the funniest nickname. This plant, like most plants on earth, is perfectly neutral and doesn’t belong to either side. Nonetheless, after learning this very amusing name, he’d resolved to henceforth keep it simple and call the plant by the most socially acceptable of all nicknames: weed.

Hidden in the back of his plant collection, Crowley keeps the single most beautifully maintained hemp plant in the western hemisphere. (It wouldn’t even place in a contest compared to the plants on the eastern hemisphere, but that’s a well kept secret the plants won’t share in the interest of making sure their friend stays alive.) Sometimes, a very rare sometimes, Crowley will indulge.

After preventing the Apocalypse, Aziraphale makes a habit of coming by Crowley’s flat more regularly. Crowley’s not sure if this is because they’ve got no one else, or if this is because Aziraphale has finally discovered kissing and how pleasant that can be, but he’s not going to complain. Or he’s not going to complain properly, inwardly. Outwardly he moans and groans and insists he “does like his privacy now and then you know.” Inwardly, he wonders what’s the angelic equivalent of having a toothbrush at someone’s flat permanently.

Today, he’s taken fully by surprise by the arrival of his angel at his flat. He’s just set out some of his simple paraphernalia (the weed in question and some rolling papers made to look like they’re from the Bible.) One joint is usually just enough to give the faintest hint of a thrum of something through him- enough to think the phrase the Devil’s lettuce is hilarious but not much more.

“What in Heaven are you doing, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks as he quite literally pops into the room.

“Smoking,” Crowley answers in a way that’s meant to sound cool. Really, he’s losing his nerve but he can’t let it on.

“Smoking what exactly?”

“Cannabis.”

Aziraphale makes a tutting noise that should be chiding, borish, prudish. Instead, he makes Crowley feel a bit hot under the collar and he wonders how far he can take his temptation of the angel tonight. (He’s gotten fairly far with this, but when a being’s been on earth and not given into temptation for 6000 years there’s, understandably, a need for a build-up. Crowley realizes then that he’s the one who stops them every night. He could kick himself.) (It’s also worth noting that despite the 6000 years that have passed on earth, Crowley himself has given into the temptation less than twenty times, and most of those since the Renaissance. There’s something about the Renaissance that sparks sexual desire like nothing else.)

“Is that how you do it?” Aziraphale asks, looking both stuffy and unamused. If Crowley could add a third adjective to the scenario it would be either “delectable” or “kissable” but these are far too soft of words to use.

“Yes, angel. There is nothing wrong with a little fun and at best this is only a buzz and-”

Within moments, a rather ornate bong appears on Crowley’s coffee table. The damned thing has a glass pineapple in the middle. This is not a run of the mill bong that’s been miracled onto the coffee table. Oh no, Crowley realizes suddenly, this is from Aziraphale’s personal collection. He’s not sure why he’s so shook to his core at this revelation, but he looks up at his angel as though this is the first time he’s seeing him.

“Oh please, Crowley. You know as well as I do that plants don’t have sides and I can do whatever I wish with my copious free time. Now, budge over.”

There’s something about his image, Crowley thinks, that makes him like the aesthetic of smoking and holding a joint. He looks like a cool guy in one of those movies about Americans in the 1950s. He’s like James Dean but with far less tragedy and more explicitly stated romantic interest in men. This, of course, is a simplification because neither Crowley nor Aziraphale are men in any sense of the word. Crowley is a demon who used to look like a snake and thinks sometimes he’d much rather look like that- and before that he was an angel which...they look like humans most of the time, but can be an eldritch level abomination with thousands of eyes. Crowley didn’t know Aziraphale before he fell, so he didn’t have the pleasure of seeing him in those days, but he suspects he was the most beautiful abomination of all. (But what is the opposite of an abomination? A horror for the cause of goodness and light? Such a thing surely should have a term.)

The issue is, Crowley doesn’t realize he’s called Aziraphale a beautiful abomination aloud.

“A what now, dear?” Aziraphale asks, blinking a few times. His eyes have the faintest red rim around them and Crowley wants to investigate all the ways they’ve become like the humans they seem to love so dearly, but he also wants to kiss him.

“I didn’t say anything, Aziraphale,” Crowley answers, playing cool. He wishes he had his sunglasses on, so his face was hidden from the world.

“I believe you called me a beautiful abomination,” Aziraphale answers calmly. They’re sat on opposite ends of the couch and have been passing the bong back and forth more or less for some time..

“I was simply thinking about your eyes, angel.”

“My eyes?”

“They’re an abomination.”

“I can assure you, they are no such thing. I am an angel and as such it’s not possible-”

“I think I’m really high, angel.” It’s not only a pathetic statement, but Crowley draws out the really so instead of a simple word, it takes him at least six syllables to speak it into existence.

“I suppose you are, yes.”

Crowley leans in closer, peering directly at Aziraphale’s face.

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale answers. Of course he’s the type of stoned where he’s content, happy. He’s probably going to start miracling strawberry nutella crepes at any moment. And then make Crowley beg for them.

“That was just weed. How can I feel like my whole body’s humming.”

Rather than scold him, Aziraphale pats his lap. Crowley obeys and lays his head down, subject to the torment of gentle touching and having his hair played with. He’s not sure how he lives with such a thing, such tenderness that’s unearned yet given so freely. How does he cope with such lightness in his world? The answer is he copes very well, even if he sometimes spends a few hours in agony over the fact.

“We’ve been smoking for hours, this is what happens when you smoke for hours. Even immortal bodies like ours have the thresholds where they get truly...intoxicated. I hadn’t realized you’d never- If I had, I would have stuck with the original bit and not miracled more.”

“I was the one who insisted after the second.”

“You did.”

Aziraphale’s hand falters for a moment and Crowley grabs it. He takes a few moments to trace over the lines of his hand, so delicately soft. Humans don’t have skin like this, and demons often don’t take this level of care (except in their wings, immaculately beautiful things). Reverently, he kisses the palm of Aziraphale’s hand. Crowley can’t think of more than fifty things in the universe while this high, and even that is a stretch, but he’s fairly certain the best thing of all is his angel. Specifically his hands. And his eyes, even if there’s thousands of them. 

He wonders idly if he strips Aziraphale out of his clothes if he’ll see the thousand of eyes. This is said out loud too and met with a laugh, which he joins in. He thinks Aziraphale says something about finding out next time, but he’s too blissed out for words to matter.

**Author's Note:**

> Find the good tweet content @ newtguzzler and the tumblr-ing @ pendragoff


End file.
